


Gordian Knot

by Cinaed



Category: CSI: Las Vegas
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Developing Relationship, F/M, Het, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-05-25
Updated: 2006-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When David Hodges' past finally catches up with him in a fatal moment, the crime lab of Clarke County will see a side of Hodges they never knew existed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad Day

"Been dead about three hours or so, based on the liver temp. You know," David Phillips remarked, gazing down at the latest victim as he put away his thermometer, "most people say they want to die in their sleep. I just don’t think this is what anyone has in mind…." 

Next to him, Nick Stokes shook his head, studying the calm expression of the woman curled up on the bed. It was obvious that she had never even stirred as her killer had come into her hotel room and fired two shots into the back of her head; aside from the blood spatter, the bed scene was otherwise tranquil. 

The rest of the room was a different story. Suitcases had been overturned and the belongings strewn about, and the disorder of the room wasn’t helped by the fact that the second occupant of the room hadn’t been as oblivious as the first. Whoever had been sleeping in the second bed had awoken and struggled -- violently, judging by the disheveled bedspread and the blood on the headboard. The hotel manager had told them that the woman had checked herself and a girl of about twelve into Room 144 under the name Elizabeth Ackerman, so it was safe to assume the second occupant had been the twelve-year-old; that meant a twelve-year-old girl was missing and presumably injured, which in turn meant that it could be life-or-death if there was any contamination of the crime scene. 

As Nick watched, fellow CSI Sara Sidle paused in her use of the ALS and frowned at the scene. "No one mentioned any sounds of a struggle or gunshots," she commented. 

Warrick Brown shrugged even as he carefully dropped a strand of dark brown hair into an evidence bag. "Probably had a hand over her mouth before the poor kid could scream, and used a silencer." 

Sara grimaced as Nick began photographing the various objects strewn around the room. The suitcases had been emptied, so he was stuck with photographing _everything_ just in case there was a pattern to the chaos. He spotted something and couldn’t help but grin. "Hey, a scrapbook. Man, my mom is obsessed with makin’ scrapbooks. She has one for every year of my life, I swear." The scrapbook was facedown, and he carefully picked the scrapbook up, still smiling. "Everything goes into those scrapbooks -- I mean, birthday cards, newspaper clippings--"

He turned the scrapbook over (above a photograph was the childish, proud scrawl of the girl’s name -- this was Abby’s scrapbook), and froze. For a moment, there was a dizzying sense of, **No way, this has got to be some sort of weird dream,** and then Warrick said, "Nicky?" and his body unfroze. 

He blinked, not trusting his voice for a moment. At last, he swallowed, and managed to get out, his voice strained, "Get Grissom on the phone." 

"Nick?" And Sara was suddenly at his side, peering into his face worriedly. "What’s wrong?" Then she looked down at the picture taped to the front of the scrapbook and the color drained from her face. "Oh," she said softly. "Oh." 

The Scotch tape holding the picture to the cover had begun to lose its adhesive -- the bottom left corner was beginning to curl up, half-hiding the feet of the trio smiling at the camera. Well, all of them were smiling, but the girl, looking nine or so, with dark brown curls and intense blue eyes, was the only one smiling _happily._ The woman, Elizabeth Ackerman, was wearing the strained smile of someone who would rather be anywhere but there, with one hand almost clutching at the gold cross she wore. The final member of the trio was wearing a self-deprecating smile, and looked as though he knew exactly what the woman on his left was thinking while he rested a hand on the little girl’s shoulder (a hand that wore a gold ring). 

It was the final member of the trio who had made Nick freeze up and Sara blanch, because they had worked alongside the man for years and never known he had been married (because there was no ring on his finger _now_) and never known he had a daughter (but the little girl definitely had her father’s eyes).

Though really, who would have suspected David Hodges of having met a woman willing to _marry_ and _conceive a child_ with him? 

 

***

 

"How do you always find my Blue Hawaiian?" 

  
David Hodges smirked. Ah, and the near-nightly ritual began. "Because you hide it in places where even five-year-olds would think to look?" he said without looking up from his coffee mug. 

Greg Sanders sighed dramatically and slid into the seat next to the trace technician. "Forty dollars a _pound_." He nudged David’s elbow and grinned when David finally looked up to shoot him a glare. "C’mon, Hodges, I hid it really well this time." 

"You were actually quite clever, hiding it in a box labeled Cleaning Supplies," David admitted, and waited until Greg’s face had lit up before he added, "There was only one fatal mistake. You labeled the box yourself and misspelled cleaning." He paused. "And supplies." Really, how could anyone be that poor of a speller? 

"Knew I should’ve checked my spelling," Greg muttered under his breath, and then abruptly grinned. (There was always something slightly maniacal about that grin, as though he was constantly plotting some crazy plan, and this smile was no exception.) "Just you wait, Hodges, I’ll hide it much better next time! You’ll never find it." Obviously, his latest crazy plan involved hiding his precious Blue Hawaiian. 

David rolled his eyes. "Or I’ll just borrow a five-year-old from the nearest kindergarten and have _him_ find your latest hiding place. Prove my suspicions right." He took another slow, appreciative sip of his coffee, and was rewarded by Greg pouting. 

"You know what--"

But it seemed that David was destined to never find out what exactly he was supposed to know, because it was at that moment that Gil Grissom poked his head inside the break room and said curtly, "Greg. I need to see you, now." 

Greg blinked, and he and David shared a look of surprise.

"What’d you do now, Sanders?" 

"_Nothing_," the CSI proclaimed, shooting David a mini-frown, but there was actual confusion in his eyes as he leapt to his feet and scurried off to speak in the hallway with Grissom…and his apparent following that consisted of Sara, Nick, and Warrick. 

David watched as the door shut, and then shrugged it off as a CSI thing. Nothing a "lowly tech" would be privy to, of course. He took another sip of his coffee, watching the CSI spectacle. After all, it was a waste not to take advantage of the fact that the CSIs constantly forgot they worked with clear glass walls. 

Greg was fidgeting, looking bewildered and a little anxious that maybe he _had_ done something wrong and just not realized it yet, while Grissom was his normal impassive self. Sara, Nick, and Warrick, however, had no poker faces at all (which was sad really, because wasn’t Warrick the one with the past gambling addiction?) and their expressions were tense. Even their body language screamed: **Something is wrong.** Warrick was absently cracking his knuckles, while Nick was worrying his lower lip with his teeth, and Sara was frowning so deeply that David could see the wrinkles on her forehead from where he was sitting. What the hell was going on?

It was really too bad none of the other technicians were around to watch the show and throw out a few ideas as to what could be amiss. Of course, the last times the CSIs had looked like _that_ had been when Brass had gotten shot and Nick had gotten buried alive…. 

The uneasiness that had started to stir at that particular thought increased twofold in all of five seconds as he watched Greg go white and stop fidgeting. When had Greg _not_been constantly in motion, whether it was his fingers drumming some stupid beat on the nearest surface or nudging David with a particularly bony elbow? Whatever was going on was definitely, decidedly bad. 

 

~

 

Greg felt vaguely ill, and wondered if his face had taken on a greenish tinge. He opened his mouth, and then closed it, at a total loss for words. David had mentioned off-handedly once or twice that he’d left a family back in Los Angeles, but Greg had thought he’d meant a family as in "mother, father, brothers and sisters, that whole blood ties thing," _not_ a family as in "wedding bells, a wife and a few years later a baby in pink swaddling clothes." And now the woman that David had actually liked enough to get married to was dead and David’s daughter was missing. 

"Who’s going to tell Hodges?" he heard himself ask, and wasn’t really surprised at the weak, shaky quality of his voice. And Grissom just _looked_ at him for a long moment, and again he heard himself speak, and this time the words were strangled. "_Me_? You want _me_ to--" 

"You’re his friend, G," Nick interjected, his soft Texan drawl even softer than usual. 

"I--" Greg stopped then, because shock had been replaced by anger. Anger at whomever had killed David’s ex-wife and taken his daughter, anger at Grissom for even suggesting Greg be the one to give David the news because that wasn’t fucking _fair_. "You’re his boss!" And in the silence he heard his unspoken plea: **Please don’t make me, Hodges will hate me forever for being the messenger and I don’t want him to hate me, I don’t want to see his face when he gets the news.** He wondered if anyone else heard his unsaid entreaty, and suspected even if they did, they weren’t going to pay any attention. 

"And you’re his friend," said Grissom, and apparently that was that, because the group was now looking at Greg expectantly, as though he was supposed to be eloquent and tell David without the other man totally flipping. 

His stomach gave an unpleasant somersault, and he wondered if David took the idea of shooting the messenger to heart. 

 

~

 

He’d watched Greg protest something, face as white as a sheet, and now the younger man was looking like someone had just kicked -- no, make that shot -- his puppy in front of him. 

He waited until Greg had come back into the break room before he arched an eyebrow. "Who shot your puppy, Sanders?" Probably not the best thing to ask, because a CSI might have actually been shot, but David had never been one to beat around the bush or be politically correct…or any other anecdote that involved discretion, really. Still, something was wrong, and David wanted to know what. 

And apparently it really _wasn’t_ the best thing to say, because Greg visibly flinched, lips pressing together so tightly that they were a mere white streak across his already ashen face. "Hodges…." And there was almost _fear_ behind Greg’s voice, the tone making the hair on David’s neck stand on end. The CSI’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and then Greg said, the words a mere whisper, "Hodges -- David, we need you to -- to identify a body."

"Me?" David couldn’t help but sound incredulous, a tendril of uneasiness entwining with one of confusion to form a complex knot in his stomach. "You seem to be under the delusion I have a social life outside of work, Sanders. Everyone I know, you know." 

Greg shook his head and looked almost tired at that. "I’ve never met Elizabeth Ackerman or Abby." 

For a moment, David was certain he had misheard him, and then he laughed, because now he knew that this was some elaborate joke. He hadn’t figured the CSU to be that cruel, but perhaps this was their way of telling him they were sick of him and it was time to turn in his resignation papers. Which was too bad, really, because David had thought he was actually getting along with most of the CSI, well, getting along better than he had with the LAPD, since he didn’t think they _all_ hated him here (Catherine tolerated him, Warrick didn’t really mind him, and he suspected he sometimes amused Grissom and Nick). He shook his head, and laughed again. "Liz wouldn’t be caught--" But his voice caught and wavered before he could actually say dead, because the uneasiness was still clenching his stomach, and he said firmly, "Liz wouldn’t set foot in Las Vegas." 

"Well, it looks like she did, David." Did Greg’s voice have to be so gentle? Greg’s voice had never been so soft and caring, and it both irritated and unnerved David. "Come to the morgue with me, please." 

Focusing on the irritation he felt was a safer thing to do, and so his voice was sharp as he argued, "I’m telling you, Liz wouldn’t _be_ here." He tried to remember her exact wording when he had told her his new job was in Las Vegas. Her alto voice, bitter as it had constantly been during the dregs of their marriage, filled his head. 

_Liz stared at him, gray eyes as hard as chips of ice, and when she spoke, each word dripped with poison. "Of all the cities, David, you choose Vegas? That city is a place of sin! Oh well, birds of a feather flock together, I suppose. It can be your Sodom and Gomorrah. Just don’t expect me to let you take Abby there, ever. I will not have her contaminated by you anymore than she already has been--" _

Greg’s voice (still soft, much to the technician’s displeasure) banished Liz before she could really get going with her diatribe. "David. Just -- please, come down to the morgue with me." 

"Fine!" David snapped. And then he was up and out the door, shoving his way past the CSIs who were milling around, apparently there to wait for his reaction. He glared at them as he shouldered his way through their ranks. Didn’t they have anything better to do? "I’ll show you it was a case of mistaken identity, and then I’ll get back to my coffee." 

"Dav--"

"Shut it, Sanders." He almost snarled the words, not wanting to hear it, because he suspected that another soft murmur from Greg would make the possibility of Liz’s death seem real, and as much as he considered his ex-wife a religious fanatic who was paranoid and asinine, he had never wanted her dead, not when it would hurt Abby. 

He focused on wondering what this scene looked like to outside observers, with him fairly flying down the hallways and having Greg and apparently the other CSIs as his entourage. David could hear the distinct footfalls of each CSI as they followed in his wake -- Grissom with his firm, steady stride, Warrick with his easy loping, Nick with his slow saunter, and Sara with her determined gait. And of course there was Greg, who was always half-traipsing his way everywhere (the other half was either tripping or dancing, David had never figured out which). 

He threw open the doors of the morgue, and scowled at Doc Robbins and David Phillips as they looked up from a covered body. 

"This is supposed to be her?" David demanded, motioning with a quick, angry jerk of his head at the covered body, and stalked over to the table when Doc Robbins nodded. "Now, Sanders, I’ll--" He dragged the covering away, knowing Liz couldn’t possibly be there, motionless and pale, couldn’t possibly be-- 

And then he was hit with the sensation of _oh shit_ free falling, only this was the version that was more akin to _fuckfuckfuckfuckingJesusChrist_ as he looked down at Liz’s colorless face. 

He blinked as hands suddenly grasped his shoulders, and automatically twisted away from the touch, snarling, "Don’t!" before he realized that he maybe needed that support, because his knees were wobbling underneath him; the next time firm hands grabbed him, he didn’t struggle and was almost grateful when the hands guided him over to a chair. 

"I don’t understand," he heard himself say in a low, hollow voice, wishing he could see anything other than Liz’s lifeless face. "Liz wouldn’t be in Las Vegas. She hates this city. I always had to go back to LA to visit Abby…." Abby. He looked up at the group who was all watching him worriedly, and the free falling became an all-out nose-dive, his stomach hitting the floor so hard that he was surprised no one else felt the ground shake. "Where’s Abby?" No one answered him, and his voice rose, no longer hollow but filled with trepidation. "Where is she?" 

After a long moment, it was Greg who answered him, and each gentle word was like a punch to his stomach. 

"The second bed in the hotel room was disturbed. It looks like there was a struggle. We…we think she’s been kidnapped, David." 

** _Lately I can't stand people  
They're always rubbing me the wrong way  
I don't feel like smiling  
It wouldn't look right on my face  
That's just the way I feel  
It's been another bad day._  
~ "Bad Day" by Samian__ **

 


	2. Never Been the Praying Kind

Nick watched as Hodges’ face emptied of emotion, and the trace technician’s entire body slumped. If he hadn’t already been sitting, he knew that Hodges would have crumpled to the ground. But then the technician was abruptly standing, each movement jerky and unsteady. "You must have trace," he said, and it was in the same hollow voice as before, toneless, as though every drop of emotion had been leeched out of him at the news that his daughter was missing. "I’ll get the--" 

"No, David. You can’t go anywhere near the evidence." Grissom’s voice was firm and if it hadn’t been Grissom speaking the tone might have been almost called kind. "You know that. Travis has already been called in." 

Nick was reminded of a mannequin whose strings were tangled -- from the straightening of his knees and the contortion of his spine, each gesture seemed shaky and uncoordinated as Hodges twisted to look at Grissom. "Then what am I supposed to do? Wait here?" he said in the same empty voice. "Sit and twiddle my thumbs while some bas--" 

"I expect you to answer some questions for Catherine and Brass and to follow protocol." 

Hodges blinked, slowly, and then rubbed at his face, as though trying to knead some emotion back into his expression. It seemed to work, because when he finally looked at Grissom again, the technician looked tired. "I can do that." His voice was faint, but at least it had a trace of its old crispness back. Hodges glanced at his ex-wife’s body, and frowned. "Liz was found with a cross necklace, right?" When David Phillips nodded, a ghost of a smile flitted across the man’s face (though whether the smile was bitter or reminiscent, Nick wasn’t quite sure). "She’ll want to be buried in that. Liz is -- was very religious." And now emotion was beginning to creep back into his voice, because Hodges had sounded vaguely ironic at that final sentence. "She -- someone will need to tell Vivian. She’d know what Liz was doing in Vegas." 

When Hodges didn’t elaborate on who exactly Vivian was and instead just stared into space, Grissom glanced over at Nick; his expression clearly said, ‘I need you to make sure he actually _gets_ to Catherine and Brass.’ Out loud, their supervisor said, "You can give Catherine and Brass that information, David." He paused. "And you’re on paid leave until this is over." 

"Right," Hodges agreed, rubbing at his face again. He turned and started for the doors, still a little shaky on his feet, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Nick flanked him. 

 

***

 

He wished he could stop feeling so _tired._ Lethargy kept tugging his eyelids shut, and his head and mouth felt stuffed with cotton. David resisted the urge to rest his head in his hands as he sat down across from Catherine Willows and Jim Brass; the former was looking at him with an expression of almost-motherly concern. Then again, hadn’t her ex been murdered as well? She probably felt like she _understood_ him. At least Nick had left; the Texan had been like an anxious collie, trying to herd him in Brass and Catherine’s direction. 

  
Sure enough, when she spoke, her voice was dripping with so much sympathy that David was surprised when the room didn’t immediately flood. "Do you need a drink, David?" 

"I doubt you have any alcohol, so I’ll pass," he forced himself to say, figuring she’d be more worried if he _didn’t_ make a smart-ass remark. "Can we get to the questions?" 

Catherine nodded, but she was still eyeing him warily, as though he might collapse in front of her. "All right then. How long have you known Elizabeth Ackerman?" 

"Since 1988." When she just looked at him, he sighed and continued, "We met in college. Her best friend’s boyfriend was one of my suitemates." An idiot, he remembered, who had enjoyed tequila more than classes. Had Jeremy even graduated?

_"Hey, Davie!" David looked up and wrinkled his nose as Jeremy’s tequila-drenched breath hit his sensitive nose and that atrocious nickname hit his ears. The unmistakably wasted young man just grinned back, oblivious, and jerked a thumb towards two girls who were watching the men’s interactions with varying reactions -- David recognized Mandy, Jeremy’s girlfriend, who was smiling with fond amusement at her boyfriend’s antics. The other girl, with striking gray eyes and straight dark brown hair that fell to her shoulders, looked decidedly irked. Either she really didn’t approve of drunks or she didn’t want David to come along. David wouldn’t blame her for either opinion, seeing as the book he was currently reading was about serial killers. "Davie, wanna go out with me ‘n Mandy ‘n…um, Lizzie, wasn’t it?" The drunk blinked and turned questioningly to the brunette. _

_"Liz, not Lizzie," she said with enough of a sigh in her voice that David guessed she’d had this conversation many, many times before, either with Jeremy the forgetful drunk or with other people. He suspected both. _

_David smirked. "Don’t want to be associated with Lizzie Borden?" he remarked, and met her intense gray gaze without flinching. _

_A reluctant smile tugged at her lips, and she said, extending a hand that he automatically shook (his mother had trained him well), "Elizabeth Ackerman, call me Liz. And sadly, you wouldn’t believe how many kids taunted me with the Lizzie Borden rhyme when I was little." _

_"Lizzie Borden?" Jeremy said, utterly lost and probably wanting another shot of tequila. _

_Liz sighed, and then began in a world-weary tone, "Lizzie Borden took an ax--"_

_"And gave her mother forty whacks," David interjected, and shared a slight smile with the girl as they finished together, "And when she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one." In the silence that ensued, he commented, "It wasn’t actually her mother, it was her stepmother."_

_"And she was actually found innocent of all charges," Liz said, and the two smiled at each other. _

_"I will never call you Lizzie," he promised, and watched her smile widen and turn warm. _

_"Good. And I’ll never call you Davie," she said, and he laughed. _

"And your relationship…?" Brass prodded after a moment, and he blinked, struggling to pull his head out of the past. 

"We started dating a few weeks later, and married in 1990 after she graduated. She got a job as an accountant and I got my Masters and then started working with the LAPD. We divorced three years ago." He had worked day shift at first, he remembered, still enjoying his wife’s company and wanting to spend the evenings with her. They had spent every night out, it seemed, going to shows and movies like LA couldn’t get old, even though Liz had been born in LA and known the city like the back of her hand. 

"And Abby was born…?"

"Abby -- Abby came along four years after we got married." In spite of the situation, he couldn’t help but smile. "Seven pounds, three ounces. It took Liz fourteen hours to deliver her. I thought Liz was going to kill the doctors when they refused to do a caesarian after the first eight hours…." 

_"You should’ve been a lawyer. Could sue that idiotic doctor. ‘Doesn’t want to do an unnecessary caesarian,’ my ass," Liz muttered from the hospital bed, but there was no real venom in her voice as she looked down at the baby nestled in her arms. _

_"Well, you ought to be a sailor, the way you cursed the doctors and nurses -- in three different languages no less," David retorted, unable to wipe off the silly grin he knew was on his face. But there was his little girl, healthy and safe, and he couldn’t help this relieved euphoria that was rushing through him. Now he had a genetic link to future generations, and was free of any further obligations to society other than to make sure this baby turned out right. As in, making sure his daughter grew up not to be a homicidal maniac. Hopefully that wouldn’t be too difficult. _

_Liz flushed a little guiltily at that. "That was wrong of me," she mumbled, and then turned a suddenly fervent gaze upon him. "Look, David, I’ve been talking with Viv, and I’d like our little girl to attend the church down the street from our apartment."_

_He blinked. "But we don’t go to church," he reminded her, puzzled at the gleam in her eyes. _

_Damp strands of brown fell in front of her face as she shook her head violently, and when she spoke, it was in a low, earnest voice that was unusual for her but somehow seemed familiar nonetheless, "But we_ should, _David. This is our daughter’s immortal soul -- and our own -- we’re talking about!"_

_The euphoria was instantly extinguished as he realized why her urgency had seemed so familiar; how many times had his mother used that voice when she had been dragging him to Mass to repent? "Liz, I just think--" _

_"That our daughter needs to go to a better church? Well, we could always move to a nicer part of the city." Liz smiled brightly. "Get that house we’ve been talking about but haven’t gotten yet." _

_His stomach twisted violently, and he looked down at his daughter, so innocent but the unwitting source of such disastrous changes nonetheless. "I--"_

_David was saved (albeit temporarily) by the nurse who bustled in and shot them a warm smile. "Figured out a name for your daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Hodges?" she asked, and seemed far too amused that they hadn’t had a girl’s name ready. David resisted the urge to glare. How was it_ their _fault that the doctors had told them they were going to have a son? It was the doctors’ fault that they had only had the name Jonathan David picked out, honestly. _

_He swallowed and looked down at his little girl, red and weary from her emergence into the world. He remembered his mother clutching her rosary and begging forgiveness (usually for deeds as minor as lying to the neighbor about David using their yard as a shortcut), he remembered his father going to church on the odd holiday and sinning the rest of the year, and said, "I was thinking -- I was thinking Abigail Elizabeth." _

_"That’s beautiful!" the nurse and Liz gushed as one, and it was settled._

_David looked down and reached out a hand stroke his half-asleep daughter’s cheek, marveling at the silkiness of her skin. "Abigail Elizabeth," he murmured. Joy of the Father. _

It had only been later that he’d learned that Elizabeth meant ‘Consecrated to God.’ Liz had looked puzzled when he’d buried his face in his hands and laughed for ten minutes straight. When Abby had celebrated her first birthday and he’d had to endure the entire celebration at Liz’s church, he’d secretly requested night shift, and gotten his request. And that, he supposed, had been the beginning of the end, although the marriage had lasted for about eight more years, with neither side wanting to admit defeat. 

"David?" 

David blinked, realizing he’d blanked out yet again. They had been discussing Abby, hadn’t they? He rubbed his face, wishing he could concentrate. "Abby’s just about to turn twelve, but she’s tall for her age." He scowled briefly. "I’m just waiting for her to get pressured to buy cigarettes for her friends once she’s old enough to pass for eighteen." Not to mention that soon she’d be, ugh, dating…. (Absently, he wondered if he could borrow a gun from Bobby when Abby brought home her first boyfriend.) 

Brass shot him an understanding look at that, and David remembered the horror stories he’d heard about the other man’s daughter. God, if Abby ended up like that drug addict…. "When’s the last time you saw or heard from them?" 

His frown turned thoughtful as he racked his brain. He normally tried to erase most of the conversations he had with Liz nowadays. "I visited about three months ago when I had the weekend off. Took Abby to the movies, and then took her and some of her friends out to dinner. She seemed fine, was excited that her science fair project had won second place. I called Liz about a month later, asked her what she thought Abby would want for her birthday. Abby called me about two weeks ago, trying to get me to let her bring her friends to Vegas and have me show off the town." He shook his head ruefully. "Almost twelve and she’s already interested in Vegas. Where did Liz and I go wrong?" 

Catherine smiled knowingly. "Just take her to the boring parts of the city and she’ll lose interest," she suggested, and David managed a smirk. 

"The only places I know are intellectual -- and therefore boring -- parts of Vegas, Catherine. I have better things to do with my time than frequent the ‘in’ scenes like Sanders," he remarked, and was almost absurdly grateful that she too was acting as though Abby would soon be safe and out of the kidnapper’s grasp. He frowned, trying to remember their conversation. "Nothing _seemed_ off when I spoke to them. Well, Liz was bitter and shot off a few barbed remarks, but that’s nothing new. Abby sounded like herself, didn’t mention if there was anything wrong with Liz." 

_He groaned and muttered a few choice words as the phone rang insistently in his ear. "Goddamn-- Hodges!" he barked into the phone, ready to tear off the head of whoever was trying to drag him to work on his off day. _

_"Dad?" _

_"Oh, sorry, sweetheart," he apologized automatically, rolling over to rub at his face in a vain attempt to wake up. "I was sleeping and--"_

_"And you’re a grouch when you wake up," Abby concluded with a bright laugh. "Sorry for waking you, Dad, but I had to call when Mom was out with Aunt Viv." _

_He raised an eyebrow at that. "What nefarious plot are you cooking up this time?" _

_She laughed again. "I was just hoping that maybe for my birthday I could come to Vegas with Darren and Laura," she informed him, and after a moment, he recognized the names of her best friends. "You could get the day off, show us around--" _

_"Wait, wait, wait," he interrupted, hand frozen over his eyes. "You want to come here? Your mother would never allow that in a million years--" _

_"Which is why I called while Mom wasn’t home," Abby said, and the silent ‘duh’ came through the phone loud and clear. _

He shook his head. "Abby wanted to come with her best friends, have a small birthday party and go and see the sites, but we both knew Liz would never allow it. That’s the…the last time I spoke to her." It hurt to swallow, much less breathe, suddenly, and he briefly closed his eyes. It would not be _the_ last time he spoke with Abby, it couldn’t be. 

"Was Elizabeth seeing anyone?" 

David opened his eyes at that and made a face. "Not that I’m aware of, but usually when we spoke, we didn’t discuss anything other than alimony and child payments." He paused. "Vivian would know. Vivian Legrand, assistant coroner for the LAPD. She’s been Liz’s best friend since I first started working there. When I was there, she worked night shifts with me. She might not anymore, but…." He shrugged. 

Brass nodded. "Do you have her phone number?" 

David rattled off some numbers, and added, "That’s her cell, I think." He frowned and ran a hand through his hair, unable to hide his frustration. He was so out of sync with LA. Hell, he didn’t even know if half the people he’d worked with were still _there._ "If that doesn’t work, I’d say contact the LAPD. I haven’t spoken to her in three years…the last time we spoke she threw a vase at me." He paused and snorted. "Truthfully, I’m betting she’ll accuse _me_ of killing Liz." When Brass raised his eyebrows, David informed him, tone caustic, "She doesn’t have too high of an opinion of me. Thinks I’m an arrogant bastard who wasn’t good enough to lick Liz’s boots, much less marry her." 

"I can’t imagine why," Brass said mildly, and David smirked. He had always appreciated the other man’s mild but biting remarks. Then Brass leaned forward; David couldn’t read his expression. "_Is_ there a reason you might want to kill your ex-wife?"

David stared at him for a moment, unable to tell if Brass was asking him that because it was required or because he suspected him. He straightened in his chair, lips twisting bitterly. "We got divorced -- irreconcilable differences, of course -- right before I came here. She got full-custody of Abby, though I was allowed visitation. Some people might think that would give me a grudge." Memories of why _exactly_ he had gotten the divorce and left LA bubbled up, and he savagely shoved them away. When he spoke again, his voice was low. "Look, Liz may have changed over the years we were married, but even though we drifted apart, I _know_ that she is -- was a wonderful mother. I didn’t fight for custody because she has -- had a steady job where she’s home at night. Abby was better off living with her than me." It was so _hard_ to think of Liz in the past tense, even though Liz’s ashen face flickered at the corners of his eyes every time he said her name. 

He still couldn’t read Brass’s expression, but figured he had correctly answered the other man’s question when he moved onto the next. "Do you know of anyone who has a grudge against Elizabeth or Abby?" 

"Liz and Abby didn’t mention anything like that. I know Liz is working for some computer business as their accountant, but she’s an amazing accountant and I can’t see her provoking her boss. Viv can tell you the exact details." David paused, and ran a hand through his hair, hesitating. "Oh, I’m not sure if this matters, but Liz…became a bit of a religious zealot. She wasn’t in any dangerous organizations, of course, but she was very in your face about being a Christian. She wasn’t beneath chasing people down in the street and shoving a Bible in their hands." He chuckled harshly. "That’s one reason we got divorced." 

Catherine raised an eyebrow when he finally fell silent. "Not religious, I take it?" 

 

~

 

Catherine watched with interest as Hodges leaned back in his chair, his lips twisting downward and his eyes darkening. One hand half-rose towards his throat, and then he slowly lowered his hand. "No," he said flatly, and didn’t elaborate. Instead, he frowned. "Wait, there was one thing…Liz came from LA money. Her father had his fingers in every pie in the entertainment industry, and her mother was an actress who never _quite_ became a star. Her mother died of cancer when Liz was thirty, and her father died in a car crash two years ago. She was an only child." 

"So you think the kidnapper might have targeted Liz for the money?" Catherine asked. 

Hodges shrugged. "Well, she didn’t have a cent of it. Her father didn’t approve of the divorce, and so in his will left all of the money to Abby, so when she turns 21--" He stopped suddenly, and went white. "The _money_," he breathed out. "When the kidnapper calls, how am I supposed to get him the money?" 

"David--" she began, watching as Hodges stood and began to pace, running a hand through his hair, his expression contorted with panic. "_David_, things will work out." 

He laughed bitterly at that, still pacing like a caged animal. "Oh yeah, you’ll get me money like you got Nick’s ransom? News flash, Catherine, I know I’m not the crime lab’s Golden Boy, and I won’t get that treatment, and I don’t expect it." He paused, fingers still in his hair. "I -- I have a few thousand dollars in the bank, and some bonds that I can collect, and I can always sell some things, like my car and…." He gave a low, frustrated growl. "Why the hell did the kidnapper kill Liz? She was the one with the money!" 

As David resumed pacing, muttering, Catherine watched him. It was…odd to see the composed, sardonic David Hodges so agitated, his hair sticking every which way, his face alternating between ashen and flushed. And she knew he wouldn’t have lashed out that viciously if his nerves weren’t so frayed. He looked like every single desperate parent she had seen in this interview room, and yet it was Hodges. It was almost like being in the Twilight Zone. 

"David," she said loudly, and he finally paused, looking at her. "We’ll cross the money hurdle when we get to it, okay?" 

His expression contorted into a bitter smile. "Okay," he said, and slowly sat back down, his face still flushed. "I -- when I’ve answered all your questions, should I go home and…wait for the call?" There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice, so faint that Catherine barely caught it. 

Brass and Catherine shared a look. "We already have an officer there, setting up a tap," Brass said after a moment, and Hodges managed a faint smirk at that. "He’ll stay there with you." 

"Good thinking. The tap, I mean." He rubbed a hand over his face and frowned. "Oh, I have Abby’s school picture, if you need it." He reached for his wallet, and it was only as he fumbled with it for a moment that Brass and Catherine could see that his hands were shaking violently. At last, he pulled out a small photograph of a girl with braces, heart-shaped face, dark curls, and an infectious smile. 

Catherine inwardly winced. Abby Hodges looked like a sweetheart, and she didn’t want to think about the thoughts the kidnapper might be entertaining about the girl. 

Handing it over to Brass, Hodges added, "It’s her latest one." 

Brass nodded, and tucked the photograph away, Catherine assumed for later use in the Amber Alert. "Okay, you say that no one that you know of had a grudge against your ex-wife, but did anyone have a grudge against you?"

Catherine watched in mild surprise as Hodges leaned back in his chair and slowly began to smile, and then to chuckle, softly at first, and then louder, until his laughter had a note of hysteria to it. "Grudge against me?" he managed to get out after a moment, lips twitching violently, and then burst into another peal of laughter that had Brass and Catherine glancing at each other and silently asking if the other thought they needed a straightjacket. But then Hodges took a deep, shuddering breath and seemed to get himself under control. "Brass, haven’t you heard of my exodus from LA?" 

"I know people weren’t exactly sorry to see you go." 

The technician smirked slightly, and when he spoke, his tone was so dry that Catherine could feel the heat of the Sahara desert hit her face and was almost surprised when her eyes didn’t begin to water. "Most people at the LAPD would buy _tickets_ to see me suffering. They thought I was arrogant and insubordinate." He paused. "Can’t imagine why." 

Brass’s eyebrows rose. "Anyone _else_ with a grudge?" 

Hodges raised his eyebrows in return, but now he just looked tired. "I think the better idea would be to make a list of who _does_ like me." 

The detective shrugged and offered Hodges a tight-lipped smile. "We can do that." 

 

***

 

"Okay, what do we know?" Grissom looked at the group of CSIs and technicians who were gathered around the table like soldiers preparing for war. It was hard not to be reminded of a similar scene, only that one had been the group trying to desperately figure out where Nick was buried before time ran out. 

"The killer left behind the two casings," Bobby Dawson said. "I identified the manufacturer and the caliber -- Colt and .45. Since no one heard the two shots, we’re thinking silencer--" 

"Grissom!" Mandy Webster skidded to a stop, waving a piece of paper triumphantly. "Got a match for the fingerprints found at the scene." She thrust the paper at him, still speaking quickly. "Carl Fletcher, 32, LA native, served a few years in the late 90s for a B &amp; E." 

Grissom studied the brown-haired man, taking in his sullen expression and half-lidded blue eyes, and then blinked as Wendy Simms abruptly snatched the sheet from his hands and frowned. 

"That doesn’t make any _sense_," she said. "The hairs Warrick collected from the scene were blonde and male." Again, she snatched a sheet from a CSI’s grasp, only this time it was Nick’s, who stared at her. "The hotel manager said that the maid cleaned the room before Elizabeth Ackerman checked in, so it couldn’t be left over from the last occupant. If the fingerprints belong to a brunette, who’s the blonde?" 

There was silence for a moment, during which Grissom and Nick both took the opportunity to retrieve their papers from the technician. 

"Unless," Sara began, and Grissom’s gaze flickered towards her. Her expression was grave. "Unless there are _two_ kidnappers." 

_**I’ve never been the praying kind,  
But lately I’ve been down upon my knees  
Not looking for a miracle,  
Just a reason to believe.**_**  
~ "Hold Me" by Savage Garden** 

 


	3. You're Missing

“Unless there are two kidnappers,” hung ominously in the silence, thickening the air and making it hard to breathe, and Nick almost sighed in relief when Grissom broke the silence. 

“All right, so we believe there are two kidnappers, one male and blonde, and the other has been identified as Carl Fletcher,” he said, voice calm, and not for the first time Nick wondered what the lab would do without Grissom. “We’ll need to contact LAPD, find out all we can about Fletcher, and have them check out Elizabeth Ackerman’s home, see if anything’s there that will explain why she and her daughter were here in Vegas.” 

Everyone else was looking at Grissom and nodding, so it was only Nick who caught the flicker of dismay that crossed Bobby’s face at the comment about contacting the LAPD. He blinked. Why would _Bobby_ of all people be alarmed at that idea? Had Bobby even been to California, much less Los Angeles? 

Meanwhile, Grissom continued giving instructions. “Wendy, take the supply of Hodges’ blood from the fridge and use it to check if the blood found on the headboard is his daughter’s. Warrick, Sara, I want you to go over everything that has Fletcher’s fingerprints on them, see if there’s a pattern. Nick, Greg, we’ve got Elizabeth Ackerman’s car. I want you to go over it with a fine-toothed comb. Bobby, see what else you can do with those cartridges, and Doc Robbins and David will get you the bullets once they’re finished with the autopsy.” He looked down at Fletcher’s rap sheet and frowned. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be updating Brass.” 

Nick watched from the corner of his eye while everyone scattered, but the rest of his attention was on Bobby as the firearm technician hurried towards his bullet lab. The Georgian had ducked his head and was evidently intent on avoiding everyone’s gaze. Nick frowned. Should he go and ask what was up, or just mind his own business? 

“Well, let’s get on that car--” Greg paused, and curiously followed the Texan’s gaze. “Uh, so why are we staring at Bobby Dawson?” 

Bobby was almost halfway down the hall when Nick made up his mind. “You go get started on the car, G, I’m gonna talk to Bobby for a sec.” Ignoring Greg’s confused look, the Texan jogged after Bobby. He’d explain his peculiar behavior to the other CSI later. 

He had almost caught up with the other man when Bobby suddenly pulled out a cell phone, hit a few numbers, and pressed the cell to his ear, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Nick was following him. The man’s voice was low and hurried. “Jacqui? Jacqui! I -- stop mutterin’ death threats, Franco, this _is_ life-or-death. David’s ex was found murdered, and Abby’s been kidnapped.” 

Nick almost tripped over his own feet at that. Bobby had _known_ about Hodges’ marriage and his daughter? And so had Jacqui? Well, he supposed it made sense -- the lab technicians stuck together -- but Greg hadn’t seemed to know about Hodges’ family, and he’d been a tech back in the day. 

Meanwhile, Jacqui was apparently done reacting, because Bobby spoke again, words tumbling over each other in his urgency and his Southern accent getting thicker and thicker. “I haven’t seen him, didn’t _hear_ ‘bout the whole thing ‘til I got handed the cartridges from the bullets that were fired into her head, but Greg said he was pretty shook up. He’s gettin’ questioned by Brass right now. But look, Grissom’s talkin’ about gettin’ in touch with LAPD and you know what _that_ means, Jacqui. Means David is screwed, plain and simple.” He sighed heavily. “What’re we gonna do?” 

There were so many questions in Nick’s head now that he wasn’t sure which one he wanted Bobby to answer first. As it stood, Nick wasn’t sure if Bobby would even answer a single one, whether he asked what exactly was so horrible about contacting LA, why Hodges was screwed, or why Hodges had kept his family a secret from everyone except apparently Jacqui and Bobby. He stared at the technician’s back as Bobby paused, shoulders hunched and gaze still fixed on the floor.

“Yeah, I think you should come in, give David some support. I’m gonna be busy with ballistics, no clue when I’ll be done, and he’ll need someone there once Brass and Catherine are through with him.” Bobby sounded as frustrated as his body posture indicated he was. “Page me when you get in, just to let me know, and keep me updated on how David’s doin’, please.” Pausing, he chuckled weakly. “Try not to get a speeding ticket, Jacqui,” he advised, and then shut the cell with a decisive snap and resumed his hurried pace towards the ballistics lab, leaving Nick staring after him. 

Hesitating for a moment, Nick finally sighed and headed out to the garage where Greg was probably waiting to interrogate him. Sure enough, as soon as he walked through the garage doors, Greg glanced over and raised an expectant eyebrow. 

Nick made a face, not sure how to explain. “Hey, G, did you, uh, know that Hodges had been married?” 

The younger CSI shook his head. “No. All he mentioned to me about LA was…” He paused, wrinkling his nose. “I think it was ‘My boss in LA was an imbecile, and I told him as much. Oddly enough, he took offense, and I was transferred here.’ And maybe there was a, ‘My co-workers were all savage Neanderthals who bumbled their way through crime solving like Columbo -- only without his finesse’ thrown in there.” Greg shrugged, smiling a little. “That was pretty much it. No mention of a kid or an ex-wife. I knew he visited LA from time to time, but I figured he just had a brother or sister there.” 

Nick stared at him. Those statements had been _pure_ Hodges and had to be dead-on. “G, why do I get the feeling that was word-for-word what Hodges said?” 

Greg blinked and looked back at him, looking startled. After a moment, he shrugged, smiling easily. “Guess I’ve been hanging around Grissom for too long, become a stickler for details. Plus, you’ve gotta admit Hodges’ insults are creative and memorable.” He raised an eyebrow and prodded, “So…why exactly were you stalking Bobby?” 

“I wasn’t _stalking_ him,” Nick protested automatically, feeling his cheeks heat. “I was just…following him to see what was up with the weird look when Grissom mentioned LA.” Shrugging at Greg’s confused expression, he elaborated, “He looked anxious when Grissom talked about contacting the LAPD, so I wanted to know what was up. Apparently, he and Jacqui knew about Abby, and there’s something, uh, bad about talking to LA. Something like Hodges is going to be in major trouble.” 

Greg frowned. “Well, it can’t have been anything _that_ bad,” he pointed out. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have been hired here, right?” 

“Right, but Bobby still seemed pretty upset.” 

There was silence for a moment, as Nick and Greg both ran through various scenarios in their heads (although Nick was certain that most of Greg’s scenarios were probably outrageous and would only happen in an alternate universe). 

“Well, I guess we’ll find out eventually,” Greg said, and then wiggled his gloved fingers at the Texan and smiled lopsidedly. “But in the meantime, Grissom wants this car inspected with a fine-toothed comb, remember?” 

“I remember.” Pulling on his own gloves, Nick sighed and got to work, thrusting thoughts of this bewildering situation into the darkest corner of his mind and instead focusing on the car in front of him. 

 

***

 

“Are we done?” David asked, his mouth dry and head aching. The mug of coffee he’d abandoned in the break room had probably been cleaned out and put aside, but right now he’d give his arm and maybe a toe or two for some of Greg’s Blue Hawaiian to stave off this feeling of despondent exhaustion. 

  
When Brass nodded, he got to his feet, and was halfway to the door when it opened and Grissom walked in. David’s eyes immediately zeroed in on the piece of paper the other man was holding. 

“We’ve identified one of the kidnappers, David.” 

He was beginning to get tired of being called David. All right, it _was_ his name, but only the other techs had called him by his first name in the three years he’d been in Vegas. The CSIs all called him Hodges, so it was only pity that was making them call him David now, and he found that pity rankled. 

Right now, though, the paper Grissom was holding was far more important than his irritation over a name, and so he swallowed and managed a, “_One_ of the kidnappers?” 

“We believe there may be two. We’ve identified one as Carl Fletcher.” Grissom studied him, as though David should be reacting to the name. “Do you know him?” 

David frowned. “No. Should I?” He peered at the rap sheet, gritting his teeth. So this was one of the assholes who’d taken his daughter? “I’ve never seen that man before.” 

“He’s an LA native,” Grissom explained, and handed the sheet over to Brass. “Served some time for a B &amp; E, but otherwise he’s clean.” 

Catherine raised an eyebrow. “A guy goes from burglary to murder and kidnapping? That’s quite a leap.” 

Brass scowled at the rap sheet. “We’ll be sure to see if there are any possible connections between Elizabeth Ackerman and Carl Fletcher.” He looked up. “What about the other kidnapper?” 

“All we know so far is that the other kidnapper is male and blonde,” Grissom informed him, and Brass’s scowl deepened, as did David’s. “We’re going to be talking to the LAPD crime lab, and if possible, send a couple of CSIs to Los Angeles. They’ll examine Elizabeth Ackerman’s home, see if she left any clues as to why she was in Vegas.” 

His headache was rapidly becoming a migraine at the mere mention of Los Angeles and the idea that some of the Las Vegas CSIs might be going there. David couldn’t keep from grimacing, and rubbed wearily at his face. “I was going to go home and wait for the call.” There’d be aspirin at home, tons of Ibuprofen and Tylenol to soothe this migraine. When the others nodded and Brass motioned for him to go, though, he hesitated, his gaze flickering towards his shift supervisor. “Grissom, let me know when you learn anything else? My cell will be on at all times.” He heard the slight strain in his voice, and mentally sighed. It was bad enough that he wasn’t running trace and helping to figure out who had taken his daughter, but being out of the loop was killing him. 

Grissom nodded, looking a little surprised that he would even ask. “Of course, David.” 

David, David, David…. He really was sick of being called David by the CSIs, even though he knew Grissom was just trying to be supportive. “Thanks,” he muttered, and fled gratefully from the interview room, walking down the hallway towards the underground parking lot. Through the glass walls he could see Warrick and Sara huddled over piles of paraphernalia, sorting through them with intent looks on their faces. 

It wasn’t until he saw the blue purse that Vivian had bought Liz for her thirtieth birthday that he realized they were going through Liz and Abby’s belongings. Rooted to the spot, he had to fight back a wave of nausea coupled with nostalgia as he watched Sara pick up the scrapbook and begin flipping through it. The last time David had visited LA, Abby had shown off her beloved scrapbook, with all the birthday cards from “important people” (that basically consisted of her parents, Vivian, and her best friends Darren and Laura) and her favorite photographs. She’d even put in a photograph from a recent lab rat party, titling it, “Dad’s friends.” (He had tried for about fifteen minutes to get her to take the photograph out, citing that he didn’t _have_ friends, but she’d ignored him.) 

He’d apparently stood there for too long, lost in memories, because suddenly a gentle hand was on his shoulder and Catherine was reassuring him in a low, sympathetic voice, “Abby will be fine, David. Do you need someone to drive you home?” 

Resisting the urge to bat her hand away, he shook his head. “I can drive,” he muttered, but didn’t dare meet her eyes, looking instead at Warrick as the man began examining one of Abby’s schoolbooks. 

There was a pause, during which he could feel her doubtful gaze upon him, and then she said, “Are you sure?” in a tone that screamed: **You’d crash and burn five minutes into the drive. **

David was almost grateful for the irritation that welled up. It, at least, was a customary sensation. Even if it made his skin itch and his jaw clench, it was a far better sensation than the bone-splintering, heart-aching weariness that accompanied his dread. “I _said,_ I’m fine--” 

“David!” 

He barely had time to register that it was Jacqui hollering his name before her arms were around him, effectively shielding him from Catherine’s sympathetic hand -- and choking his oxygen from him. “Jacq, off,” David managed to gasp out after a moment of the woman squeezing him anaconda-tight. 

She slowly released him, obviously reluctant, and took only a single step away from him, worry making a furrow between her eyes and thinning her lips. “Are you all right?” Judging by the ratty bathrobe, pajama shirt and pants that didn’t match, and faded-blue slippers, she’d rolled out of bed and come straight to the lab. Obviously, someone had snitched. 

Getting his breath back, he shook his head. “You didn’t have to come in, Jacqui.” 

The fingerprint technician shot him a look that could only be described as: **You’ve got to be kidding me.** It was reassuring if only in its familiarity, and David managed a weak smile as he reached out to pluck a forgotten curler out of her hair. 

“I’ll drive you home,” she announced after a moment, and then sent a look towards Catherine that dared the blonde to say otherwise. “Just let me tell Bobby and we can go.” 

So Bobby was the tattler. David really should have known. He frowned. “I can drive myself.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys with a flourish, only to scowl as his hand -- _still_ shaking? Jesus Christ! -- dropped the keys onto the floor. 

“I’m driving,” Jacqui said sternly, enforced a scant second later by Catherine’s, “Jacqui will drive you.” They both ignored David’s dark look, and Jacqui snatched his keys from the floor before he could protest further. 

 

***

 

This was fucking ridiculous. No matter how many times David told himself that, though, he couldn’t help but feel a certain emptiness in his apartment as he entered, like someone’s ghost was haunting the rooms. Abby had never been there, had never set foot in Las Vegas until a few hours earlier. The only things that bore any memory of her were the various knick-knacks she had sent him over the years (these appeared wherever David had thought they wouldn’t clash with the rest of the furnishings) and the photograph of her that faced the door (it was a copy of her latest school photo). Despite those facts, the feeling of loss remained, and he swallowed hard before he nodded at the detective sitting on his couch. 

Detective Vartann nodded back. “I’ve got the tap set up,” he said, and David thanked God (even if he didn’t believe in the deity, there really was no other omnipotent being to thank that leaped easily to mind) that the man didn’t call him David. Although he suspected that was probably because Vartann didn’t know his name. 

“Thank you,” was all he said, and sat down on the couch next to the detective, staring at the phone and willing it to ring, for the kidnappers to name the price so that the police could track them down and rescue Abby, or for him to scramble to find the ridiculous amount the kidnappers were sure to ask for and get her back that way. The phone didn’t budge, melt, or ring under his heavy stare, and he could feel Vartann and Jacqui both staring at _him,_ heaven knew why. After about twenty minutes, he muttered, “You, uh, two can have some food and drinks if you want.” Anything to make them stop studying him like Grissom would one of his bugs. 

“I’m fine,” Jacqui said, never relinquishing her stare, but at least Vartann went in search of sustenance. (It took all of David’s will not to apologize to the detective for not having doughnuts.) Still, it had really been Jacqui he’d wanted to distract, and he turned to scowl at her after another minute of her gaze boring into his skull. 

“A watched pot never boils, David,” she drawled in response, still watching him carefully. It wasn’t the sympathetic, I-think-Hodges-is-about-to-explode-or-have-a-breakdown look that Catherine had been sporting; this was a concerned, I’m-your-best-friend-and-I-know-you’re-going-to-kill-someone-if-I-don’t-intercede look. 

He raised an eyebrow even as Vartann wandered in with a sandwich. “Pot calling the kettle black, Jacq. You’ve been staring at me while I’ve been staring at the phone.” 

Jacqui frowned, and opened her mouth to answer when Mozart’s Piano Sonata filled the air. Now David frowned and scrambled for his cell. Had Grissom made a break in the case? 

“Grissom?” 

Silence, and then a low, flat voice said, “No.” 

Not recognizing the voice, he blinked, and pulled the cell away to look at the number -- and felt the sensation of _oh fuck_ free falling hit him tenfold as he stared at Liz’s cell number. The goddamn _bastards._ 

 

~

 

Jacqui watched the color drain from David’s face, and he closed his eyes briefly, as though in sudden pain. She shot a bewildered look towards the detective, who shrugged back. 

At David’s hoarse, faltering, “Have you hurt her?” however, she jumped to her feet and bolted for the kitchen. She’d seen him check the phone number, and he had a notepad on the fridge, didn’t he? In another instant, she’d yanked the notepad off the fridge, found a pen in a random drawer, and raced back into the living room. 

David was hunched over, eyes half-shut, listening intently to whoever was on the other end. He didn’t acknowledge her as she scrawled down ‘The phone number?’ and she had to shove the pen against one of his fists before he opened his eyes and stared blankly at her. Darkened blue eyes flickered down at the notepad, and he looked almost uncomprehending for a moment before he scribbled a hasty number down. 

Without even looking at the number, she shoved the pad at the detective, who had already whipped out his own cell and was out of the room with the number before she could blink. Jacqui could hear the detective’s voice, low and urgent, as a mere murmur in the next room. 

David’s raised voice brought her attention back to him, and now his eyes were wide open, gazing somewhere slightly to her left, unfocused, although his expression was one of incredulity. “I’m supposed to bring the money to _LA_? I -- no, of course I’ll get you the money, I was just…surprised that the drop-off isn’t in Vegas, that’s all. I’ll get you the money.” He listened for a moment, and then cleared his throat. “May I -- may I speak to her?” 

Jacqui looked away then, because if there was one thing she knew about David Hodges, it was that he was a private man, and the expression on his face at that moment was one he would never want anyone to see. She kept her eyes averted even as David cleared his throat again and whispered, “Hey, sweetheart. Are you okay? Have they hurt you?” 

It wasn’t until he finally leaned back against the couch cushions and let out a soft grunt of frustration that she dared look back. His expression was now one of extreme rage and his hands were clenching the cell phone so tightly she was surprised it didn’t shatter in his grip. 

Vartann poked his head back into the room and frowned. “Call ended before we could get a fix on the location. We’re going to pull the call history and see if the kidnappers have called anyone else.” 

David just stared for a moment, and then suddenly snarled, “Sons of bitches!” and Jacqui jumped as he leaped to his feet and threw the cell phone against the wall. David began to pace, muttering, “Using Liz’s goddamn cell and the drop-off’s in fucking LA.” He snatched the now-battered cell phone from where it had landed, and punched in a few numbers, growling out, “Grissom, it’s me. I don’t know if you’re with Brass still, but they used Liz’s cell to call me. You said Fletcher’s a LA native? Well, he wants the drop-off to be in LA, so I guess he’s going home…. No, they didn’t give me an exact location yet, just told me to get myself there with $500,000 and wait for another call. I -- Vartann’s got her cell number, he’s going to get the phone history, see if the kidnappers have been using it, and maybe the call with the drop-off location will be long enough to trace. I -- I spoke to Abby.” He paused, and then nodded to himself. “Right. I’ll be there as soon as possible.” 

David finally seemed to remember Jacqui was in the room, because he looked at her and managed a shadow of a wry smile as he slipped the cell into a pocket. “Mind driving me back to the lab? We’re going to LA.” 

**_Pictures on the nightstand, TV's on in the den  
Your house is waiting, your house is waiting  
For you to walk in, for you to walk in  
But you're missing, you're missing  
You're missing when I shut out the lights  
You're missing when I close my eyes  
You're missing when I see the sun rise  
You're missing_  
~ “You’re Missing” by Bruce Springsteen** 

 


End file.
